BUSINESSWEEK ONLINE : JULY 31, 2000 ISSUE
LETTER FROM THE LOIRE VALLEY From Haute Cuisine to Cause Celebre It began as an ordinary visit. Just over two years ago, an inspector from the Office of Competition, Consumption & Repression of Fraud--or, simply, a consumer-protection man--arrived at Jean Bardet's restaurant in Tours to make sure that it didn't violate any sanitation statutes. Bardet has long been one of France's most esteemed chefs. His eponymous restaurant has had two stars in the Guide Michelin, the gastronome's bible, since 1985; with its adjoining hotel, it has been a member of the exclusive Relais & Chateau chain since 1989. Previous inspections had always been routine. Not this one. ''This inspector came searching to find something,'' Bardet claims today. And as it turned out, the man from Paris did find something--five somethings, in fact. Bardet's menu said his asparagus came from the Loire Valley, when some came from southern France; some of his ''farm'' cheeses were not farm products according to French rules. Bardet's butcher had supplied a veal chop from a different producer than the one named on the menu. Some fish said to be caught on a fishing line may or may not have been trapped in nets: On this grave matter, the fishmonger couldn't be sure. Infraction No. 5 had to do with the wine list. It promised that Jean Bardet's wines were Appellation Controlee, or AOC, meaning they came from designated zones such as Bordeaux or Burgundy and were produced according to AOC regulations. But two from the Languedoc region turned out not to be AOC at all. From such modest beginnings has come a national cause celebre that has the world of French haute cuisine walking on eggshells. And a lot of French entrepreneurs say it is a perfect illustration of why it is so difficult to create a business and build wealth in France. In this parable, the fate of 59-year-old Bardet, who is more comfortable behind a stove than in front of TV cameras, is of almost biblical import. Last December, a court in Tours fined him $4,600 for his culinary transgressions. Those precious Michelin stars? History. ''Our reputation is ruined,'' says a tearful Sophie Bardet, the chef's wife. The French government is only too eager that the lesson of Jean Bardet is well learned: No French entrepreneur shall cut corners. You can hardly call it a new idea, however dramatic the Bardet case. Ever since Colbert centralized the economy under Louis XIV, Paris has been decidedly dirigiste in its attitude toward business of any kind. And while deregulation and privatization are much the rage these days, the government still employs more than a quarter of all French workers, many of whom spend their time monitoring one thing or another: store hours, shop sales, the 35-hour workweek. Inspectors are essential in all this--and not just in restaurants. ''This is part of doing business in France,'' says Bertrand Pecquerie, owner of Fashion Live, a Paris Internet business. Pecquerie was recently fined $5,000 after an inspection of his books that lasted two days, 9 to 5 (with two hours off for lunch). And he was delighted. ''I got off easy,'' Pecquerie says. ''You have to give them some carrots to bite on.'' TARRAGON ICE CREAM. Controls are especially strict on restaurants, because they handle fresh food and because working hours are so irregular that it is difficult to enforce that 35-hour week. The Office of Competition, an agency of the Finance Ministry, makes 20,000 to 25,000 inspections a year and presses cases against about 2,000 establishments. ''Gastronomy is the front window for French culture, and we must be particularly vigilant,'' says Pierre Gonzalez, a Ministry spokesman. Jean Bardet knows all about front windows. He has long considered himself a standard-bearer of France's glorious gastronomic tradition. Like most leading chefs, he began in Paris as an apprentice--a galley slave, really. He eventually moved to Tours, famed for its 16th century chateaux, and opened his restaurant in an elegant Belle Epoque mansion. That was in 1987. Then, as now, Tours was a peaceful, conservative city, the capital of the lushly productive Loire Valley--and an excellent market for a restaurateur. Bardet knows how to lay it on, certainly. The 21-room hotel provides a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow to guests who want to tour the chateaux in style. While his decor is ultraconservative, his cooking is adventuresome. His seafood and shellfish stew is infused with Vouvray, a local white. The cheese trolley--with those nonfarm products--groans with goodies. His desserts border on the bizarre--tarragon ice cream, saffron couscous cake--but are sublime. None of this is cheap. Rooms run to $330 a night; meals average $150 per person. Then there are the Bardets, who complement the image by managing to look as if they stepped out of an upscale travel magazine. He's strong and stocky with thick black hair; she's a blonde who revels in jewels and designer clothes. They enjoy the luxury they sell--in addition to selling it, of course. SOCIALIST SPITE? Picture-perfect, isn't it? And that, so far as the Bardets are concerned, is precisely the problem. They say they're being vilified for being too ostentatious in this quarter of provincial, Catholic France, where money ought to be quiet. ''I know people around Tours complain about the Rolls,'' Jean Bardet says. The food inspector, he believes, was a Socialist out to get him. Only in France, you might say, for the simple reason that there seems to be something uniquely French about the side-by-side traditions the Bardets and their bureaucratic tormentors represent. True to type, then, the Tours prosecutor decided to press charges after receiving the food inspector's report. After a day in court, Bardet and his wife were found guilty and fined. At that point, the national press picked up the story and went straight to town. ''Wine from the supermarket,'' blared Le Canard Enchaine, the sharp-toothed satiric weekly. ''Asparagus from Spain,'' claimed Le Nouvel economiste. '''Farm veal' that isn't farm-raised,'' sniffed the Sud Ouest newspaper. ''These are all lies,'' says Sophie Bardet. ''My husband has worked 43 years in the kitchen, always searching for the best quality.'' Things progressed--or regressed, depending on your point of view. Egged on by the press attention, the prosecutor demanded a larger fine. Then came the coup de grace. The people at Guide Michelin--rigorous inspectors in their own right--excluded the Bardets from their latest edition, which was published on Mar. 1. ''We cannot include a restaurant involved in such legal proceedings, and which could close at any moment,'' said Guide Michelin spokesman Alain Arnaud. When Bardet tried to meet with the Michelin folk, his wife says, he was turned away like a diner with no reservation. At this point, the culinary community is both divided and anxious. At a Relais & Chateau meeting on Mar. 13 in Paris, President Regis Boulot stood up for the Bardets, and the crowd applauded. At the same time, some of France's other leading chefs are having trouble holding their saute pans steady. ''The Bardet affair is a serious warning to all of us,'' says Antoine Westermann, owner and chef of the Buerehiesel, a three-star restaurant in Strasbourg. Even the government now seems to think all this has gone un petit peu too far. ''The press reports hurt the Bardets in a way that was out of proportion to the infractions,'' admits Finance Ministry spokesman Gonzalez. Two weeks after the new Guide Michelin appeared, sans les Bardets, an appeals court in Orleans cut the fine to $3,700. The judge explained that Bardet's mistakes, after all, were not intentional. The Bardets plan to keep their starless restaurant open, and they say that business so far has not suffered, even if their standing has. ''We will defend ourselves by producing even better quality,'' Sophie Bardet insists. As to the larger issues that have been raised, the Bardets and their allies assert that their case is a measure of the government's undue influence in French life. ''Under the present rules, you can be accused of 'illegal publicity' if you have something on your menu but run out of it,'' Westermann worries. France's entrepreneurial chefs, it would seem, had better make certain their roasted ducks are all in a row. By WILLIAM ECHIKSON Brussels Bureau Chief Echikson is the author of Burgundy Stars, about life in a top-ranked French restaurant. EDITED BY PATRICK SMITH _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ BACK TO TOP					RELATED ITEMS From Haute Cuisine to Cause Celebre MAP: France INTERACT E-Mail to Business Week Online

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